


The 71st Rose

by eris_of_imladris



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4805957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eris_of_imladris/pseuds/eris_of_imladris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She leaves seventy, of course, for the victims. And then one red rose remains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 71st Rose

The flower seller knew to expect her on the sixth of the month, but not with her current title. He had heard, of course, what had happened to the viscount. That he was now imprisoned. That the Chantry had taken control. That Meredith, the templar who had been coming to him once a year for a very specific order, was going to be wearing a different kind of armor, a new demeanor, a new life.

She wore the title with exhausted eyes that looked like they had not slept in a week. She held her head high, almost stiffly, as she walked through the marketplace. People parted the way for her, not sure yet if she was going to be benevolent or a dictator in the interim period without a viscount. But whatever she was going to be, no one could dispute her raw strength, and the crowd parted for her with nary a word.

She arrived at his stall, rummaging in her satchel for some money. Oddly enough, he noticed that she was not wearing her usual helmet, instead choosing to go bare-headed save for a golden circlet signifying her new station. He shuffled to do his work, holding up a large bouquet of roses of all different colors. Most were fresh, but the ones at the side were protesting their lack of water in his grubby hands. She knew she could trust him. Seventy exactly. She put her coins on his table.

"No payment. It is my honor to serve the new Knight Commander." He bowed his head.

Meredith shook her head, sliding the coins farther along the table. "I insist."

He swept the coins into his lap without another word, knowing better than to challenge her directly. Although he had never felt the fury of her blade, he had heard rumors of her might in battle. He passed her the roses and waited while she counted, then transferred them all to her left hand. She held out her right hand - not gauntleted, as usual, but rather bare. Her hands were not delicate by any means, not typical of a lady who bought large quantities of flowers, but nevertheless it was skilled at choosing the final rose.

He held out a bouquet of red, waited for her to slide her fingers along the petals, waiting for her to find the one that was the most alive. She found one straining for water, bursting with its beautiful crimson petals above the rest of the bunch. That one would not do. No, she had to go for the softest, the one with perhaps a bit of maroon at the edge, tiny little seeds in the middle, sharp thorns at the sides. She chose her rose.

She left without another word. He never knew where she was going with the roses, only that she came once a year since she became a templar, and that she was a rather memorable customer for this very ritual. The crowd regained its liveliness as she passed through, heading towards a small neighborhood that not many people frequented. It was not his business to be curious. It was his business to sell flowers, and to watch her go down that dark street every year. But it was also his business to notice when she came back, an hour later, blood dripping from her long hair.

Meredith walked through the alleyways slowly, making sure to keep a good hold on the flowers and not let any of them fall to the ground. The first alley was a bit sketchy, but before long she stood before an open area facing a group of houses, children running through the road and shrieking as they played a game of mages and templars. The neighborhood seemed entirely normal, and the children playing at war could not have imagined the war that had taken place on their own doorsteps.

The only indicator that this neighborhood was not completely normal was a statue in the center of the open square with a rusted plaque at its base, the words almost unintelligible. Few who remained in the neighborhood these days knew what significance the words held, but one of those was a middle-aged woman who sneaked up on Meredith almost completely unawares.

"You look different" was her simple greeting. Meredith blinked slowly, returning from her distraction into the text of Transfigurations in her mind. No matter how often she reminded herself that the words about maleficarum - and liars - were not on the plaque, she couldn't help but feel victimized each time she came here. But she had to. She was in command now, and she was responsible for keeping an entire city safe, for keeping the little ones running through the neighborhood from ever feeling the way she had felt that day.

"I am different" was Meredith's response as she waited cautiously to see what would happen next.

The woman nodded, indicating the golden circlet gracing Meredith's brows. "So you are the new Knight Commander, Ser Stannard?" 

Meredith gulped. If this was the reception she was getting from this woman, how would she ever face the woman's mother? "Yes. I wish to express my condolences once again and reiterate that under my command, this will never happen again."

Meredith imagined the woman pondering, contemplating, figuring out her next move. If she thought Meredith's words were true, that would mean her own daughter would not have died in vain at the hands of Amelia Stannard. If her daughter's death could save innocent children, perhaps it would be worth it? But there was no way to tell until she spoke again. "I have put aside my family and my name. I was ordained Knight Commander Meredith by Her Grace the Grand Cleric. I give you my word, I will keep this city safe."

But what would the woman think of Meredith's word? At ten years old Meredith could have saved seventy lives by telling a templar about her sister. Her own cowardice had doomed these people to die, and how was she supposed to be forgiven by the mother of a victim? "I do not mean to bother you. I simply wish to leave my flowers and go in peace."

The woman opened her mouth, looking at Meredith with a mixture of skepticism and distrust. "Seventy-one again?"

"Seventy-one again," Meredith echoed. In a hushed voice she added, "I know what she was, but she was also my sister."

The woman took a step back, gesturing towards the plaque. "I will try to keep my mother out of your way." A simple gesture of peace, a nod at the Knight Commander, and the woman was on her way. Meredith held the flowers in her hands, wondering if she was worthy, before closing her eyes.

Meredith knelt before the plaque, its words worn away by time. It used to be bright and gleaming, but over the years the rains and storms and lightning had reduced its message to a few chicken-scratches on a metal plate. No one could read the words anymore, and as the years went by, people forgot this particular event and moved on to others. Sure, the casualties were catastrophic, but few people were still around who remembered the events of That Day.

Now that the middle aged woman whose name Meredith could never remember had vacated the premises, it was her turn to atone. She held out flowers and began placing them down.

For the secrets I did not tell. The table's corner set ablaze, food boiling in its dishes, dumping water on the wood until it buckled and collapsed to the ground. Fourteen flowers for the accidents.

For the earth torn apart. Lesser demons squelching out of the ground to join their master, the twisted and malformed Thing that used to be Amelia Stannard. Meredith learned years later that it was a fear demon from its physical appearance, but she never knew what had made her sister so afraid that she was willing to sell her own soul. Fourteen flowers for the souls scattered on the streets.

For the men flinging their arms in front of their homes, torn to bits as their loved ones ran for cover. Fourteen flowers for bravery turned to brokenness.

For the women screaming but holding their ground, shielding children with their bodies. Fourteen flowers for shrieks turned to silence.

For the children playing on the streets, realizing mages-and-templars is not a game. Fourteen flowers for sociability turned to sacrifice.

At last, she held just one rose, one red rose with bright thorns and maroon edges. One red rose.

"You!"

Meredith swiveled her head around as quickly as she could, facing the old woman who was marching towards her with more determination and passion than most templars on their morning patrols. Most templars, not Meredith. She owed it to Kirkwall to put in the extra effort, to work her body ragged if she could even try to save one life for the ones her stupidity had taken.

The woman started to yell again - "How dare you show your face here, Meredith Stannard!"

"Knight Commander," she growled. It had been a long week, one of the longest in Meredith's life, and she had lost many friends and brothers-in-arms and she was not about to get into a screaming match with a grieving woman. But she would not get beaten down again. The title was hers by right, and nothing that happened now was going to take it away.

"What?" Her lined face turned a bright red of indignation. "How could you get picked - did you kill everyone in front of you in the queue? Or did you just - " here she began making hand gestures - "allow them to die accidentally?"

"Leave me in peace and I will depart in a moment." It was then that Meredith turned to face the woman, showing her face and her new armor and her crown, showing her hands prickled with thorns.

It was then that the woman saw the 71st rose.

"You leave a rose for a murderer? The same one you leave for my granddaughter? For my husband?" She advanced towards Meredith, shaking her fists. "You put that flower down, you'll regret it."

"Mother!" The younger woman advanced towards the two of them, holding out her hand. Her mother swatted it away. "You'll get punished. It's not worth it."

"Anyone who would punish someone for grieving is not worthy of wearing that armor." A fat fleck of spittle on the templar sword on Meredith's breastplate.

As the daughter dragged her mother away, she let out profanities and pawed at the ground, reaching down to drag her fingernails along the bricks on the ground. Her fingers grabbed onto a rock-sized piece of brick, rolling it between sweaty palms. She pursed her lips through her tears. She snarled, gritting her teeth. She threw the piece of brick in the air.

Meredith saw nothing as she knelt to place her sister's rose. All she heard was a thump, and a rush of pain. And when she brought her fingers to touch the back of her head, she felt the sticky tang of blood.

Her fingertips were stained red, a few sticky drops webbing between her outstretched fingers as she flexed them, wondering if she was about to lose her life then and there. And then she decided she would not. Whatever it took, she would get back to the barracks. If that monster who had called himself the viscount had not killed her - and not for lack of trying - then she would survive. She was too strong to go down from something like this.

But she felt dizzy, her head swimming as she blinked once, then twice, wishing she had taken her lyrium before departing the Gallows in the morning. Anticipating a short encounter with no trouble, she had saved it for later, which would no doubt aid in her recovery but was only emphasizing to her now how pathetic she must look, staring at her bloody fingers. She fought blood mages almost daily. This should not alarm her.

"Knight Commander, are you all right?" the younger woman asked hesitantly, holding onto her mother, who was not putting up as much of a struggle. The mother did not utter a single word, simply looked aside and refused to meet Meredith's eyes.

"I... believe so," Meredith added, shaking her head a bit to try to gain some clarity.

The younger woman hesitated again before speaking. "I will help you take my mother to the Gallows."

"What?" Meredith snapped.

"She assaulted the Knight Commander," the woman gave her a strange look. "Are you sure your mind is not affected?"

Meredith stood for a while before responding. She watched the older woman squirm in her daughter's arms, glaring up at Meredith with utter hatred. This was the price she had to pay to be a Stannard, the price her sister had exacted upon the family. The red rose was a toll of blood, a toll that Meredith would continue to pay until she had saved seventy lives. One for each life her sister had stolen before their time.

"Take her inside," Meredith whispered, then repeated herself with a hopefully more authoritative tone of voice. "And keep her away from bricks in the future."

The younger woman looked incredulous, but did not challenge Meredith. Instead she dragged her mother back to the home, and Meredith faced her until she was back indoors and no longer a threat. A headache started to burrow into her brain, and she knew she had to get back to the Gallows so she could find a mage with a talent for healing. She began to walk out of the neighborhood... but not before giving the roses one last look, the seventy curled into each other in a pool of victims, and the one loner, the murderer, the mage. And it was for this that Meredith fought.

Meredith wove her way back through the marketplace with her hand on her head, almost looking as if she was seeking her sword. The crowd parted before her and even the merchants seemed to quail from behind their stalls. All except the flower seller, who noticed a streak of blood on Meredith’s hand as she walked by.

“Knight Commander, I apologize if my roses cut your hand,” he shook a bit, hoping his earlier generosity would save his life. He knew she was not someone who appreciated being injured, especially by something like plants rather than an honorable duel.

“You are not at fault,” she responded, keeping her fingers intertwined in her hair, bunching the blonde strands in a knot to try to halt the steady drip of blood. “Is there… is there a boat returning to the Gallows anytime soon?”

The bewildered merchant, unsure of what to say, quickly assured Meredith that someone would surely be there soon, and he watched her head off in that direction with a puzzled expression on his face. She did not say another word until she saw a boat being captained by one of the newer templars with a background in water navigation. Hopefully it was someone she could trust – her life was likely forfeit if this templar was not loyal to her – or worse, a spy for the imprisoned viscount.

“Knight Commander!” He stood up taller when he saw her waiting on the side of the docks, but then looked aghast when he saw her hand pressed into her head and dripping blood down the back of her armor. She was starting to feel woozy and light-headed, but she had to make it to the Circle. She was not going to faint in front of this newcomer like a seasick girl. It was not life-threatening, and she could handle it. “Are you… how can I help… Ser?”

“Just get the boat… to the Gallows. I’ll find a healer there.”

“One of the viscount’s men?” he asked as he reached out to help her onto the boat. She wobbled alarmingly but did not take his hand. She had to be strong. Always strong. She shook her head lightly enough to avoid exacerbating the wound. “Well, I hope the bastard got what he deserved,” he said as he began to steer the boat.

Meredith nodded slightly, but knew that the situation was quite the contrary. The price was set too high – she could not pay the price – so she knew that the woman would never get what she truly deserved – justice for the deaths of her loved ones.

When the boat reached the Gallows, she felt her head swim and rock with nonexistent waves as she stepped out of the boat with trembling feet. Her armor felt heavy all of a sudden, a feeling she recognized as blood loss. She was not typically affected in this way, but a sharp piece of brick to the head often had side effects such as these. This did not even feel like a wound in a fight with a mage, which spurred her further and called in song to the blue lyrium coursing through her blood. No, this was something she had not felt before - a weakness in her blood and bones, an inherent problem with the human form.

She staggered towards her office, the templar from the boat standing respectfully a few inches behind her at all times. He thought she was weak... and she almost didn't have the energy to contradict him. Luckily, it was not much farther to reach the place where a few healing mages were kept to heal templars' wounds. She blinked heavily a few times, realizing that her feet were shuffling in a rather undignified manner. No matter - she would be take care of soon, and she could not afford to show any weakness around her men - not at this time... she lunged forward and through the doorway.

"Knight Commander!" she heard a voice snap to attention, and then a warm gust of magic tickling the back of her head. She always felt healing magic as a tickle, focused on the sensation to try to keep herself from falling. She swayed alarmingly before she found herself sitting down, her hand removed from the affected area and the tickling coming back in force. "Take this," the mage urged, "it should help." Meredith was in no position to refuse, but she appreciated the tingle of lyrium sliding down her throat, along with a return to a greater sense of wakefulness.

It turned out she was not the only templar in the clinic - a large man looking like a bear was getting something oozing on his arm patched up, and when he saw she was more awake, he strode over to her, alarming the mage trying to heal him. "The name of the one who did this," he growled.

It would have been so easy. She knew the name, knew exactly where the widow lived with her daughter and the memories of her husband and granddaughter. With one word she could have the woman strung up much as in the logo of the Hanged Man, with a gesture she could have half a dozen templars running through that neighborhood, out for blood. Just one word could get it all started. "I am fine, templar."

"Someone did this to you - a mage? Are you affected by blood magic?" He sent out a small cleanse in her area, annoying the mage still tending to her head.

"This person is not a mage, I've checked," she asserted, relishing the feeling of the tickle of healing slowing down the trickle of blood. "At ease, templar. I will be fine." And she knew as well as he did that he would have no choice but to answer, to heed her wishes. The woman would live her miserable life to see the next day - perhaps even a day of renewal - and true to her word, Meredith would be fine.

She always was fine - fine after her family died, fine after her fellows died just this past week, always doing well and fine and not needing any kind of help beyond the lyrium she gulped down. Now was not the time to acknowledge that there were times - rare, but they did occur - when she was not fine. When she was simply Meredith Stannard, trying to mourn for her murderer of a sister along with all the victims for whom Meredith felt personally responsible. Now that she was Knight Commander, she would curb the influence of magic. Never again would someone feel the pain of losing their family due to magic. This, she knew - and she knew it would be her philosophy until her dying day.

And, the following week, a second little plaque was added to the one in the square, the one where blood magic had stolen so many lives all those years ago. And the little plaque was engraved with a rose, and held only one sentence:

Let mine be the last sacrifice.


End file.
